


it's not a good look (gain some self-control)

by whirling_dervish



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dom/sub Undertones, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, M/M, Porn With Plot, Trans Male Character, but no in-fic usage or anything, cw for weed and coke mention in ch 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirling_dervish/pseuds/whirling_dervish
Summary: Grantaire is an attractive man.  He’s quick and smart and can knock a full-grown man out with a single well-placed punch, drunk or sober.  When he’d moved on from his string of one-night stands however long ago he’d cut his hair and now keeps it fairly short on the sides, top still long and curly and soft to the touch.Before tonight, Enjolras has never allowed himself to touch.In which Grantaire finds comfort in Enjolras after his break-ups.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 113





	1. i don't want you to leave

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!!! it's my first time posting to this fandom, so i hope you like it!!!!!
> 
> big thnx to aj for holding my hand through editing, hi0ctane for sensitivity reading, and c for literally everything else!!!!!!
> 
> ch and fic titles from "stay with me" by sam smith

When Grantaire arrives for the meeting, he arrives alone.

He’s also twenty minutes late, but that’s neither here nor there: he’s here, and his latest girlfriend is not. Leila seems nice enough, but she doesn’t mesh nearly as well with their group as other core members’ partners, and for the past several months that she and Grantaire have been dating it’s been a fairly even 50-50 split on whether or not he shows at all. As far as Enjolras is concerned, tonight is an improvement in every way.

It isn’t until the meeting is over that Enjolras approaches. Grantaire had taken his place at the bar before it had officially ended, but whatever he’s drinking is a bright colour and came with an umbrella, which for him usually means it’s nonalcoholic. (This is the opposite of how Bahorel drinks, an important distinction that everyone had learned in undergrad through a high-stakes exercise in trial and error.) It also usually means Grantaire is in a bad mood, so Enjolras doesn’t bother sitting down, instead leaning over the bar beside him. “Hey.”

“Hm?” Grantaire’s eyebrows raise high on his forehead before placing Enjolras. “Oh. Hey.”

“Everything all right?”

“Sure,” he says with a roll of his eyes, missing the straw with his mouth and playing it off with a wave of his hand. “All right, all the time.”

Definitely not ‘all right’, then. Enjolras knows well enough that Grantaire will skirt around anything less than a direct question, so he changes the subject. “I noticed Leila’s not here. Is she okay?”

Grantaire’s expression furrows, mouth pinching and eyes narrowing. “…Elle?” 

He was close. “Your girlfriend.”

“Elle,” Grantaire affirms. “She’s fine, she’s good.”

“That’s good.”

“Well, I mean, she’s _fine._ We’re fine.” He huffs. “We fought before I left.”

“Oh.” Enjolras isn’t sure how he should react, but ‘smug in his presuppositions’ seems inappropriate, so he sets that aside for a later time. “Is something the matter?”

The other man shakes his head. “She—it was stupid. It doesn’t matter. But…I think we broke up?”

“Oh?”

“That is, I’m pretty sure I got dumped.” A bashful hand rakes back through dark curls as he gives a soft laugh.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” He’s not: Elle’s laugh had been grating and her opinions underinformed, and her hands had an annoying habit of wandering during meetings that she was either unaware was as obvious as it was or didn’t care. 

“Don’t be. It was honestly one of the dumbest fights I’ve ever been in.”

“I once watched you take a woman to the ground over a breath mint.”

“It was an extremely stupid fight.”

“I see.” It’s clear that Enjolras won’t be hearing any more about Elle tonight, which just as well because he couldn’t possibly care less about her. The conversation has hit a natural pause, and if he wants to he could easily take the opening to bid his adieus and move on. 

The night is young, and Grantaire is single, so Enjolras sits.

Grantaire is an attractive man. He’s quick and smart and can knock a full-grown man out with a single well-placed punch, drunk or sober. When he’d moved on from his string of one-night stands however long ago he’d cut his hair and now keeps it fairly short on the sides, top still long and curly and soft to the touch.

Before tonight, Enjolras has never allowed himself to touch. 

At first it was because he didn’t know Grantaire; then it was because he _did_ know Grantaire; and since the Amis’ intervention had led to him switching jobs, cutting back significantly on his drinking, and beginning to see a therapist, it has been because of their strange and ongoing game of Chicken. 

Generally speaking, Grantaire initiates. It’s baseless, Enjolras knows: Grantaire flirts as easily as he breathes, with little old ladies and supermodels and married couples alike. He flirts single and taken, and he’s been flirting with Enjolras for so long that he doubts either of them remembers quite when it began. Enjolras' reciprocation is born from a different preoccupation: his initial response had been more cold and standoffish (his usual method for discouraging unwanted attention), but time had proved humouring it to be much more effective in shaking the flirt’s attention, and once Enjolras had gotten to know him better it had even become a soft opening— 

After all, Grantaire is an attractive man.

Between the two of them, Enjolras has never been the one to push, and tonight is much the same in this respect. His life is busy, and aside from a handful of one-off relationships (the longest of which barely scraped three months) his dating history is rather barren; Grantaire, however, has proven himself capable time and time again of handling one-night stands with maturity, and Enjolras has to remind himself several times to tear his eyes away from the way Grantaire’s fingers run lazy circles over the rim of his glass or the slow drag of his tongue against his full bottom lip after a drink.

Enjolras has never been the one to push, but tonight Grantaire is shoving well-past the usual mark, and his hair is soft when Enjolras reaches to push it out of his eyes. Their knees knock together as they drift closer while the Thirsty Thursday crowd rages around them. Of them, Enjolras already knows he won’t be the one to yield, so when Grantaire finally leans in with a tilted head and hooded lids Enjolras mirrors him.

They freeze mere millimeters apart, and before either of them can overthink it Enjolras closes the distance. 

Not that Enjolras has invested much time imagining what it would be like to kiss Grantaire, but when their mouths finally do meet the other man’s lips are shockingly soft, their pliance against his own entirely too easy to fall into. He feels his breath catching as Grantaire moves to deepen the kiss, and he doesn’t realise until his hand is already there that he has reached forward to caress the man’s knee, the beginning of a slow, torturously cautious charge up the jean-clad thigh. The decision to let it fall inside or out is an impossible one, so the course continues its tenuous path along the top, balanced perfectly in the no man’s land of ‘neither’, and when Grantaire greedily sucks at Enjolras' lower lip once the hand meets the juncture of hip and thigh he pulls away.

There’s a flash of extremely satisfying disappointment in the other man’s eye before Enjolras recomposes himself enough to ask, “My place?”

… 

In the end they’d barely made it past Enjolras’ doorway. It had been a cool frisson between the two of them until the latch clicked, the ensuing frantic press of bodies assuring that neither of them had the wherewithal to even consider discarding clothing until they were both already sated. Being a gentleman, Enjolras had offered to let Grantaire stay the night, but it was with no small amount of relief that Grantaire had begged off, claiming work the next day.

After, there hadn’t been any calls or texts, just the hassle-free bliss of a clean hook-up with no loose ends. It had been _good,_ without the fumbling or awkwardness that often came with strangers, and in the days to follow his only regret was that he had not had an opportunity to be more thorough.

The following Thursday brings a certain strange distaste and with it, Grantaire’s new partner.

Jay is _fine,_ he supposes: everyone else likes them well enough. They’re well-versed in politics and contribute to discussion, they’re excellent at pool and are always the first to buy a round, they can hold their own in intellectual discussions with Combeferre and Courfeyrac alike and let Jehan write along the vines that wrap around their left arm. All in all, they’re much better than Ella had been, and Enjolras makes a point to be unerringly polite to them at every meeting they attend and every social occasion besides that Grantaire brings them along for. Something about them seems off to Enjolras, but nothing worth expressing.

Throughout this time, Grantaire has continued to act exactly as he did before, which is what Enjolras had wanted in the first place, so there’s no reason to be irritated at it. The flirting continues with the same enthusiasm it ever did; Jay only seems to find this vaguely amusing, sometimes even joining in, and that’s...fine. It’s nice to see that they aren’t trying to change Grantaire or stand in the way of any of his friendships.

It’s a Tuesday when Enjolras receives the text.

> **Grantaire:** can I come over

Enjolras thinks the answer is obvious, but he sends it anyway.

> **You:** Ofc, is everything ok?  
>  **Grantaire:** looks like I’m single again

It takes a moment for Enjolras to fully wrap his head around the emotions that ensue. He’s sad for Grantaire, of course: it's plain that he and Jay got on well, and Enjolras suspects that Grantaire isn’t seeking company to celebrate the end of a quietly miserable relationship. His initial stab of self-righteousness had been immediately smothered, because there’s a good chance that Jay had done nothing wrong (though Enjolras maintains his right to doubt).

Underneath it all lies the thrill of possibility: Grantaire is single and on his way to Enjolras’ flat.

Their encounter two months prior had been a favourite to return to in the private quietude of night when sleep didn’t come easily, and while he didn’t have designs, per se, to get Grantaire back into his bed, he did have ideas. These ideas rush forth now, a dam breaking over him with enough force that Enjolras has to sit down for a moment to breathe.

 _No,_ he firmly tells himself. Grantaire is probably looking for a friend, not—Ella had been different, there was a dumb fight. They hadn’t gotten along the way Grantaire and Jay did. She didn’t fit in the way Jay did.

He should put on some tea. 

Once the kettle is filled and heating there isn’t much for Enjolras to do but avoid his own thoughts. He goes through all of the voting districts three times and has to restart the water once before a knock sounds at the door and Enjolras springs to his feet to answer it.

“Hey.” Enjolras’ whole body is taut with anticipation as his eyes meet those of his rain-damp visitor.

“Hey.”

The greetings hang in the air. Enjolras knows he should be inviting Grantaire in, offering him a towel and tea and a sympathetic ear, but the space between them is static, electricity prickling his joints and making it hard to breathe as their eyes remain locked. He’s hyperaware of the heat he feels radiating off of the other man, the dizzying smells of petrichor and cologne and a hint of something else that cling stubbornly to the boxer…the way they’re both still frozen in the doorway.

He isn’t sure who moves first, but suddenly they’re joined again, like they both knew that this was the real reason Grantaire was coming here, and maybe some part of Enjolras did know this, but the confirmation of the hands racing over his body and the mint of toothpaste trailing down his neck is making it a difficult line of thought to prioritise. He barely manages to manoeuvre them into the flat, this time remembering to lock the door behind them. The studio is small, with the lounge area in the front and the bedroom just past the kitchen behind it, so it’s easy to guide Grantaire to the bed. Once there, the man climbs eagerly into his lap.

“So, uh.” Enjolras should have had the foresight to do this over text, before his frontal lobe absconded to the pulse point Grantaire is tracing patterns over with his tongue. “It ‘looks like’ you’re single? Or you are single?”

“Caught them in bed with our neighbour: _definitely_ single.” 

“Oh.” His initial wave of smug self-righteousness makes a brief return before being overtaken by another significantly larger wave of sympathy. “I am so sorry, do you want to— _ah.”_

Grantaire’s unsubtle grinding leaves little room for misinterpretation. “This will do for now, thanks.” 

Enjolras has to physically stop himself from saying ‘you’re welcome’, instead focussing on occupying his hands with liberating Grantaire from his rain-soaked jacket and exploring the hot skin beneath. 

Shards of a highly theoretical plan start coming back to him as Grantaire’s shirt is pulled up over his head (already a vast improvement on their last time) and the marks that someone—presumably Jay—had left some time before become glaringly evident. Biting, sucking, scratching: these things until now had never held much appeal to Enjolras beyond the most base impulse of keeping his mouth occupied, but he is suddenly filled with the overwhelming desire to claim, a need that seizes him with urgency that shocks his whole system as Grantaire’s clever fingers rediscover the waistband of Enjolras' pants.

It takes Herculean effort to roll Grantaire onto his back and stand up, in that order. “Stay here?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question: for one, it’s not. Unless there is a consent issue (which he trusts Grantaire to bring up in the same way he trusts Grantaire not to have any qualms calling out whatever so moves him ever), it absolutely is an order. For another, he needs to regain some semblance of control over either himself or the situation. Preferably both.

“Stay,” he repeats, this time more firm, a thrilled pulse running down his spine when he sees Grantaire sit obediently upright on his bed, “and don’t touch yourself until I’m back.” There’s only one light illuminating the back corner of his flat, the bedside lamp, but its dim glow highlights Grantaire’s shoulders and arms, shadows curling luxuriously around the contours of muscles and losing themselves in the dark swells of his tattoos.

Enjolras turns into the bathroom while he still can.

Normally he might have ordered a partner to undress or prepare themself while he does this. His recent fantasies have involved Grantaire, pupils blown and skin flushed, watching wide-eyed as Enjolras gets ready. Now that the moment is upon him, he needs a private moment to cool down, a necessity further evidenced by the way his hands tremble as he opens the cabinet under the sink to retrieve his things. It’s absolutely crucial that he be the one stripping Grantaire of his clothing and words an article at a time, be the one opening him up and summoning forth every broken sound the other man has in him. Their first time had been rushed, but tonight Enjolras wants to take his time, wants to claim and own Grantaire completely.

At that, Enjolras' mind stutters to a stop. _Own._ That’s not what this is at all: it’s never felt like that before with other partners, and as he makes the necessary adjustments in the mirror he frowns. He’s hooked up with people before, so why does this feel different? Is it because he and Grantaire know each other? He doesn’t date much, but when he has it’s never felt so close, so gripping. 

Perhaps because of Jay, then, and their betrayal.

 _Yes,_ Enjolras decides, _that must be it. I just want to make a good friend feel safe._

The box is back under the counter now, and he has condoms and lube in his nightstand. He hadn’t given Grantaire anything to do, so he knows he needs to get back out before Grantaire _(before either of them)_ overthinks this and changes his mind.

Oh, right, and he should grab a towel.

When he steps out, it is with great satisfaction that he sees Grantaire’s mouth drop open into a perfect O. His damp jeans have to be uncomfortable, but he hasn’t moved since Enjolras left him, and there is an incredibly satisfying bulge already visible in the dim light of the room.

Before Enjolras can say or do anything Grantaire is already moving towards him, dropping wordlessly to his knees. His breath comes hot against the base of Enjolras’ cock as the man’s hands run greedily up along the outsides of his thighs before gripping him by the hips and pulling forward in one smooth motion.

 _“Christ.”_ That’s his dick, that’s _Enjolras’ dick_ moving in and out of Grantaire’s mouth, and the boxer is working it like he is somehow personally deriving pleasure from the act. His movements are enthusiastic, and he only doubles down when Enjolras gently winds a hand into the dark curls, letting it rest against the scalp and tugging from time to time. None of Enjolras' previous partners had ever thought to do this, and he desperately forces himself to memorise the mesmerising act. Grantaire’s mind is brilliant, it’s perfect.

 _Perfect. Mine._ It’s a litany in his head as he watches Grantaire’s mouth work over the shaft _(my shaft,_ his brain provides through the haze), and he reminds himself that he isn’t letting himself overthink this right now. It’s safe, it’s sane, it’s consensual, and if he really needs he can go over the scene later when Grantaire isn’t actively with him and running a thumb along the sensitive inside of his thigh.

He allows himself the extremely guilty pleasure of watching for another minute before tugging Grantaire away, a breathtaking keen rising as Enjolras pulls him by the hair to his feet and shoves him back over the bed.

“Pushy.” It’s said with a cocked eyebrow and a smirk as Grantaire props himself up on his elbows, and somehow Enjolras doubts that he minds.

Grantaire must have kicked off his shoes at some earlier point in time (small favors), but his socks are still on, and Enjolras decides to start there, removing them one at a time and running his free hand over Grantaire’s hip as he presses kisses along the inside of the man’s still-clothed knees. Once the socks are done with he moves further up, reveling in the feel of Grantaire’s mouth against his and swallowing the pants and moans and whimpers that rise at the pressure of Enjolras’ thigh between Grantaire’s legs.

He’s desperate to get rid of the last bit of clothing separating them, but Enjolras forces himself to take his time, lavishing attention along Grantaire’s neck and collarbones as his hands do a much more thorough mapping of the knots of scars and tattoos and obscured muscles than he’s been afforded a chance to until now. The sounds tumbling forth are neither of the languages Enjolras speaks when they’re comprehensible at all, and there’s something deeply gratifying in that. Grantaire’s hands—his _hands,_ calloused and nimble and perfect—take equal and ample opportunity to survey Enjolras’ body, running over him with touches that alternate evenly between frenzied exploration and aching grips, and he relishes in the idea of discovering the fingerprint-shaped bruises over himself in the coming days. 

By the time he’s finally reaching to undo the clasp and zipper Grantaire’s hips are frantically canting forward, and Enjolras has to hold them down as Grantaire releases a frustrated whine. “Come _on,_ Apollo, let’s _go.”_

The pleas only encourage Enjolras to go slower, and he does, pointedly dragging the jeans down separately from the boxers and mouthing against fresh skin as it appears until the waistband reaches Grantaire’s knees and he settles for moving to the foot of the bed and tugging them off by the hem in a single movement. _Mine._

“Not gonna lie, that was weirdly hot.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras tells him, trying not to laugh as he balls the jeans up and tosses them somewhere that is no longer his problem, climbing back onto the bed and pulling Grantaire’s legs over his shoulders. The bare skin is hot against his, and his patience with the remaining article of clothing is rapidly diminishing, but Enjolras is determined to wring tonight for everything he can. There is no guarantee that he’ll ever be able to even have Grantaire like this again, much less be afforded the resources to do it properly, and with that in mind he sucks a line of bruises along the insides of Grantaire’s thighs, hands wandering under the boxer shorts and around the powerful thighs within, coming close enough to Grantaire’s cock to make the man shudder and swear but not enough to satisfy. 

The time at last comes to remove the pants, and Grantaire raises his hips readily, muscles in his legs and stomach flexing enticingly beneath downy flesh. With the final article out of the way, Enjolras allows himself a moment to take in the soft lines of Grantaire’s body, the uneven dusting of dark hair covering most of him (especially the usually-hidden troves containing distractingly higher concentrations), and the hardness that until now has been implied and felt but never seen, before getting up again to pick up the towel he’d dropped on the floor earlier, retrieve the necessary materials from the nightstand, and reappropriate a pillow from the far side of the bed for a higher cause.

With the pillow and towel in place, Enjolras looks up to see Grantaire’s hand reaching for the blue tube and has to smack it away. “That’s not for you.”

Puzzlement crosses Grantaire’s face. “I mean, I can top, I just figured since you—”

“I want to open you up.” It’s one of the things he’s been most looking forward to, hearing Grantaire beg for him and feeling the man flex around him and knowing he’s the one making it happen. “Assuming that’s fine with you?”

“Fine? It’s—yeah. Yeah, okay, this is. Yeah, fine. For sure.” He coughs. “If you think you can get to it today, I mean. And I get to do this,” he adds, swiping at the condoms with as much indignance as anyone in Grantaire’s delicate position can muster. 

Until tonight Enjolras had been utterly unaware that there was a way to sensually put on a condom, but Grantaire somehow manages, rolling it over himself in a way that Enjolras is strikingly aware is meant to be a tease—a tease that, to the boxer’s credit, is absolutely working. 

In another turn of events, he manages to get himself upright enough to roll the other over Enjolras, giving some tantalizing tugs in the process. Enjolras is already sensitive, and seeing Grantaire’s _hand_ on his _dick_ on top of the stimulation is _a lot._ He knows he’s staring and is vaguely aware that he’s probably whispering a steady slew of absolutely filthy profanity, but it seems to be working for Grantaire, so (as with so many other aspects of the night) he tells himself not to overthink it.

By the time Grantaire finally removes his hand Enjolras is well past ready for the main event, and he makes a show of squeezing the lube onto a single digit and slowly rubbing it around the outside until Grantaire is swearing up a storm, the sounds abruptly cutting off into a single gratifyingly broken moan when the finger finally presses inside. Enjolras presses in up to the first joint, working slowly and deliberately and watching Grantaire’s face for signs of discomfort as he deepens the motions. “Is this all right?”

“Fuck, Enjolras, yes. Yes, it’s all right, and it’ll be even more ‘all right’ when you finally get on with the— _fuck, no, why?”_

A chuckle vibrates in Enjolras’ chest as he holds up his fingers to add more lube, leaning over Grantaire as he reapplies them. After the initial shock of the stretch Grantaire’s breathing begins to pick up pace again, and Enjolras takes in the full effect: the blown pupils, the kiss-swollen lips, the mussed hair, the new hickeys that sit bright and glowing against the older, faded ones. The man is still talking, though, rambling something about Dionysus and ambrosia in a language Enjolras understands, which is entirely unacceptable. He shifts his weight onto an elbow, brushing one of the fingers of his free hand experimentally along Grantaire’s lower lip, and is pleased when it makes the man’s breathing stutter. 

It shouldn’t, then, be as surprising as it is when Grantaire takes the finger fully into his mouth, working his tongue desperately around the digit with hollowed cheeks and looking directly at Enjolras. Dazed and probably gaping, Enjolras watches helplessly as a second finger disappears behind those pink lips, gulping as they work expertly around the joints. He regains enough control over his faculties to synchronize the rhythms, adding a third finger to his other hand’s efforts but keeping only two in Grantaire’s mouth. As the motions grow familiar and automatic Enjolras lets his mind run loose, marveling over the pull and sensation and feeling his breath grow short over how _responsive_ Grantaire is to the curl of his fingers, and _God, Jay is an_ idiot, _they’re a_ fool, _how could they possibly not cherish this?_ He suspects some of that may be said out loud because Grantaire starts whining around his digits, and is Enjolras hyperventilating because he might be hyperventilating, and— 

“I, um,” he coughs, removing his fingers. “That should be enough.”

His hands swipe across the towel as he tries to steady his breathing, and he really could use a couple of minutes to recover, but Grantaire is spread and ready _now,_ so he satisfies himself with one as he spreads more lube over himself with a very, very distracted hand, watching as Grantaire stares hungrily at the motion. 

He imagines that they’re both extremely worked up and sensitive by now, a suspicion confirmed when he sees Grantaire move a hand from where it had clenched in the sheets earlier to give the base of his shaft some gentle squeezes as the rise and fall of his chest begins to even out.

“Are you okay to continue? We can take a break or sto—”

“I swear to every god I know, if you are not dicking me down in the next _minute_ I will fucking _haunt_ you.”

He can’t argue with that. 

Every muscle in Enjolras' body is positively buzzing by the time he lines himself up and begins pressing in. He watches Grantaire’s expression closely, but the prep must have been enough because after a long moment passes to adjust to the initial stretch the boxer’s countenance fractionally relaxes. A low stream of air is released as Enjolras tries to recompose himself.

His lower back is thumped by an unexpected blunt force. “Fucking. _Move,”_ Grantaire grits, his foot landing another two hits when Enjolras snorts. His expression goes blank as Enjolras slowly rears, opting for long, deep thrusts for now. 

He can feel that he’s already close, the mounting pressure of the movement clutching at him. He manages to cum on a downstroke, muscles trembling as he struggles to hold himself over Grantaire. His vision slowly returns to him, and he’s distantly aware of Grantaire gently stroking a hand up and down his spine and whispering in his ear as he returns to himself and starts up again.

He’s still painfully sensitive, so he goes slowly, which fortunately seems to work for both of them as he watches Grantaire’s expression for a sign that he’s at the right angle and— _there._ The pace picks up again, and his abs and quads are screaming, but Grantaire’s face is contorting gorgeously under him, gasping for _more, faster,_ and Enjolras is struck with the absolute need to kiss him. It’s sloppy, punctuated with feverish murmuring and panting, and Grantaire is clinging so hard to Enjolras' shoulders that he knows he’ll find purple wings there tomorrow, and it’s _so good_ because he _wants_ it, he wants everything Grantaire will give him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he hears himself whispering against the other man’s lips as a whine curls between them. The urgency is rising in him again, and he reaches down around Grantaire and begins pulling him off in quick, jerky motions. The sensation surprises Enjolras almost as much as it seems to Grantaire, and he revels in the pulsing heat through the latex, working it in time with his thrusts as his partner’s sounds grow increasingly clipped and aborted before finally peaking.

Enjolras is allowed the several more strokes he needs to reach his second orgasm, chest seizing and back arching while his face does something he’d rather not think about as it washes over him. He can’t feel his hands, which sounds like a problem for future-him since present-him has much more pressing needs on which to focus.

With a final huff, Enjolras presses a kiss to Grantaire’s flushed cheek before cautiously withdrawing and heaving himself upright. The condoms are quickly disposed of, and Enjolras reaches into the bedside drawer to retrieve some wet wipes, carefully cleaning what he can before pulling the soiled towel out from under Grantaire, folding it, and tossing it into the hamper. Usually clean-up is sterile and awkward, but with Grantaire it just feels like another way Enjolras can care for him, and he savors it.

With everything tidied, Enjolras returns to the bed and pulls Grantaire close, threading his fingers through the soft, dark locks and basking in the afterglow. His flat is quiet except for their breathing and the thump of Grantaire’s heartbeat against his ear, and Enjolras can feel the exhaustion of the day finally creeping over him.

“Well, I should probably be going.” And just like that the serenity is broken, Grantaire pushing himself out of the bed and leaving Enjolras collapsed on his side in all of his tired glory.

“You could stay if you want,” Enjolras insists, meaning it this time. His flat isn’t too big, but he has a sofa. And a bed.

“Nah, better not,” Grantaire shrugs, apparently having located his boxers and pulling them up over himself. “Work and all.”

That is a thing that they both have in the morning. Running a hand over his surely-mussed hair, Enjolras sighs. “Right. Well, if you want to talk about things with Jay—”

The look on Grantaire’s face indicates that he had probably forgotten his original intent on coming here, and Enjolras could honestly kick himself. “At least they got it out of the way early, right? Would have sucked to be, like, emotionally committed.”

“You deserve better.”

“Than to be cheated on?” A clipped, self-deprecatory laugh accompanies the hop-skip of tugging on his jeans. “Low bar there, but yeah, I’ll grant you that.”

“Are you sure you have to leave tonight?” A quick glance at the green numbers of his clock tell him it’s already half-past midnight. “We could set an alarm.”

“Better not.” A cordial smile is stretched taut across his face when he looks up from grabbing his shirt. “Sweet dreams?”

Enjolras sighs, sitting upright. His boxers and accessories are still in the bathroom. “I’ll lock up behind you, just give me a minute.”

“Thanks. And uh,” he says, audibly more bashful, “thanks for this, too. For letting me come over.”

He isn’t sure how to answer that, so once he’s in his pants and out of the bathroom he shrugs. “It’s no problem at all.”

Grantaire gives a crooked grin, and Enjolras really cannot believe how vastly they’d all overestimated Jay’s intelligence quotient. “See you around?”

“Of course.”

At last Grantaire has picked up his jacket, stepped into his shoes, and been entirely reassembled into the man he showed up as. “Take care,” he tells Enjolras before stepping out into the dim halls of the tenement building. 

“You too,” Enjolras calls weakly behind him before shutting the door and locking it. His own things still lie scattered around the bathroom, and it occurs to him that it would be saving himself a lot of hassle to handle them now.

Enjolras is very tired, so instead he turns out the lights and climbs back into bed.

… 

Grantaire comes to the meeting two days later alone, but the following week he has a new partner in tow, and Enjolras’ ears fill with grey noise.

“I still can’t believe Jay cheated on R,” Courfeyrac confides to him and Combeferre over tea and paperwork the following weekend. Apparently this is news to everyone else. 

“I’m not.” Enjolras’ teaspoon finds its saucer with a shrug. “Something about them always seemed off.”

Courfeyrac’s response comes accompanied by a sigh and a roll of his eyes as he sits back on the sofa between them. “You always think something about Grantaire’s partners ‘seems off’.”

“He has bad taste.” He pauses to take a sip before continuing. “And I resent that: I am always perfectly—”

“Polite, yes, and I’ll grant that I don’t think the others can tell, but Ferre and I have known you since you thought ‘euthanasia’ was about the rights of a collective of underaged persons: we know when you don’t like people, and you never like anyone Grantaire dates.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, this is,” Courfeyrac interrupts with a gesture towards Combeferre, who uses a finger to push his glasses up higher on his nose.

“I prefer ‘he’.”

Giving an exasperated huff, Enjolras puts down his tea with only a minor clatter. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh really? You remember the guy he brought in November?”

“Which one?”

“TJ.”

Oh, _TJ._ “He was so—” Enjolras shakes his head, waving his hand as if he can sweep the memory of the hipster git out of the room. 

“And the dude Bahorel started seeing in February?”

He pauses a moment. “Tyler?”

“Yes.”

“He seemed nice enough.”

“Yeah, because it was Bahorel bringing him instead of Grantaire.”

Enjolras’ mouth purses: Courfeyrac may have a point here. 

“You’ve gotten better since he first joined, but you’re still much judgier about everything R does than anyone else.”

“I’m not!” he insists. “I like R.”

“You can like him and still be harsh,” Combeferre points out.

“Bam: Combeferre said it, now you know it’s true.”

“Oh?” Enjolras counters, eyebrows raising as he tries and fails to tamp down an amused grin. “You mean like when Ferre told you that eating four pounds of gummy bears was going to make you sick, and you decided—and I quote—‘science is for nerds, physics can eat my shorts’?”

“They are not mutually exclusive statements: I heed Combeferre’s warnings and choose to ignore them. It doesn’t mean he’s wrong, I’m just impulsive.”

“And the rights of the people?”

Courfeyrac sniffs. “He’s grown since undergrad. Matured. Learned that it doesn’t pay to compromise with the standing government and that we cannot afford to take half-measures with the treatment of citizens under the law.”

A quick glance in Combeferre’s direction indicates that this is purely wishful thinking, but they can dream.

Enjolras is cleaning up after dinner when it hits him.

_Oh. I have feelings for Grantaire._

He doesn’t drop the plate he’s washing, but he does feel himself continue to move automatically as the thought disseminates, seeping through his subconscious and filling in all of the missing cogs and wheels and puzzle pieces. The numbers have finally been assigned in the connect-a-dot, the full picture is coming into view, and— 

Oh, that’s no good at all.

Grantaire is dating, yes, but he isn’t interested in dating anyone like Enjolras (see: every idiot he’s paraded through meetings over the past year and a half). Enjolras isn’t interested in dating, period—or maybe he is? He’s never felt like this about anyone before Grantaire, known their flaws and weak points and still wanted them so entirely: it’s uncharted territory.

Either way, it’s pointless when Grantaire sees him as a half-step above a rebound.

No, this entire revelation is better packed away and ignored, left to wither in a dark, cool corner where it can’t bother anyone until it quietly dies off and can be disposed of without issue, like the houseplants his mother gifts him every time she comes to visit. He doesn’t have the time for it, Grantaire doesn’t have the patience, and neither of them would be interested in the fuss.

On the counter, his phone buzzes, and Enjolras dries his hands on a dish towel before retrieving it.

> **Grantaire:** single again  
>  **Grantaire:** apparently accountants are Boring  
>  **Grantaire:** wyd rn

Ignoring that whatever letter of the alphabet Grantaire had picked up this time is apparently totally ignorant of anything regarding Grantaire or his life, it’s as unsubtle a booty call as anyone could ask for, and under other circumstances this would be fine. Given his most recent revelation, though, Enjolras forces himself to take a step back. The intelligent, responsible thing to do here would be to say ‘no’. His emotional compromisation already makes it inadvisable, and given his strange possessiveness barely two weeks ago it’s clear that those wires have definitely crossed in some way or another.

On the other hand, now that he knows what the problem is, Enjolras should be able to address it. He’s always been a master at compartmentalising when he needs to be, and there’s no reason that this should be any different. The sex is good—it’s great—and it’s easier than going online and hoping that he won’t be objectified, fetishized, or otherwise disrespected by a total stranger. One more box checked off.

> **You:** Come over

…

It becomes a thing that they do: Grantaire dates someone for anywhere from weeks to months, and Enjolras is there after. Objectively, it’s going rather well. At meetings his feelings are pointedly packed away, and he’s been making an effort to get to know and be friendly with whoever the suitor of the week is. The flip-side of this, of course, is that he finds himself avoiding spending more than the minimum amount of time with Grantaire and being polite to the point of blandness when they do interact. The behaviour has earned him some strange looks from Courfeyrac, but it’s also technically faultless, and Enjolras is fairly certain that this is the only thing saving him from a discussion.

The nights Enjolras receives texts are a different story: the box bursts open, an endless chant of _mine, mine, mine_ overtaking him when Grantaire invariably appears on his doorstep time and time again. This, too, is fine, because Grantaire always leaves as soon as their encounters end. It’s good, Enjolras always tells himself. It’s fine. It’s enough.

It’s never enough.

Enjolras gives and gives and gives and gives, and Grantaire takes it so beautifully, but it’s fighting with fog, gripping water, shouting into the void. There’s nothing substantial to it, and when Grantaire leaves, Enjolras feels emptier than when they started, but that’s the way these things go. Text, sex, rinse, repeat.

> **Grantaire:** can I come over

The inevitable knock is answered as neutrally as Enjolras can manage as he wills his the feelings to stay contained the way they’re meant to, but Grantaire is already wearing that sardonic half-grin when the door opens, and possessiveness grips his heart as he steps aside to allow the man in. “Five days?”

“I’m pretty sure someone’s slapped a ‘Waste His Time’ hashtag somewhere on my person. Think you can find it for me?” He makes a grand show of turning this way and that, one Enjolras is fairly certain has been calculated to show off the exact fit of his trousers and how visible the lines of his tattoos are through the thin cotton of his shirt. 

Enjolras ends the charade, closing the space between them and grasping at Grantaire’s rear to drag their hips together into a slow grind. Their mouths match the steady, dirty pace set, and when Enjolras starts untucking Grantaire’s buttondown the latter puts up no fight.

What follows is much the same as always: clothing is strewn in an uneven trail from the living room to the bedroom, and Enjolras does what he can to claim Grantaire, to make this somehow enough. He bites, he clings, he bruises and marks and coaxes gorgeous, gorgeous sounds from the man. He makes Grantaire look at him, makes him say Enjolras’ name, makes sure he knows exactly who is taking him and making him feel this way and absorbs the desperate final look in his eyes the instant before he cums, a pounding rhythm of _mine, mine, mine_ pumping through his veins.

What about this isn’t enough? What about _him_ isn’t enough?

What does Enjolras have to do to make this count?

When they collapse together in the bed after, Enjolras basks in it. It’s the time that he can be soft, that he’s allowed to be tender and be gentle and simply _be_ with Grantaire. Breathless kisses are peppered along the dark hairline before Enjolras blindly reaches into the now-familiar drawer for wipes and tends to the mess. It’s quickly disposed of, and he pulls the man into his chest, revelling in the way Grantaire curls into him and allows himself to be held.

For a few blessed moments Enjolras can feel satisfied.

The world begins turning again when Grantaire stirs: he gets up and collects his clothing. Enjolras offers to let him stay. Grantaire begs off with excuses of work in the morning. They both ignore that it’s a Friday.

Text, sex, rinse, repeat.

The night ends with Enjolras falling back into bed after locking the door behind Grantaire. The security he’d briefly felt is sapped, replaced now with something heavy in the pit of his stomach. It’s horrible and desperate and clawing, and it’s always worse after, fresh in the knowledge that no matter what he does, the next partner is only a meeting away.

The feelings aren’t crushed back into their packaging yet, and in the darkness of his room he knows that they won’t be able to neatly fit much longer.

He can’t continue like this. He should never have started. 

This needs to end.

…

Phillip works at the volunteer center near Enjolras’ office. Sometimes they run into one another at the community garden and he jokes about the bedazzled composting bucket that Bahorel had made for Enjolras in a meeting three years ago. Phillip is smart and kind and has his life together, and he likes Enjolras. Enjolras doesn’t really have anything resembling romantic feelings for Phillip yet, but it’s worth trying: if he is going to fall for anyone, Phillip is a great choice.

They’ve been seeing each other for just under a week when Grantaire approaches Enjolras before a meeting, looking tired but cocky. It must be tax season again. “Hey.”

“Hey. Work all right?”

“Work’s fine, work’s under control,” the man dismisses. It’s not an unexpected response: Grantaire hates his job. “Word on the street is that you finally have a bae.” He’s smiling when he says it, relaxed and lackadaisical in a way that leaves Enjolras irritated.

‘I can date too,’ he doesn’t say. ‘Some of us are capable of separating our personal and professional lives,’ he doesn’t say. “I’m seeing someone.”

“It’s been a while, congrats.” 

It’s so genial that Enjolras is at risk of crumpling the papers in his hands. “And you? Did you leave—” The boxer’s been going through partners so quickly that Enjolras has lost track of pronouns completely, much less names. “—your partner at home today?” 

“Single for the time being. But who knows?” Grantaire winks. “Maybe someone’ll bring a sexy friend tonight who enjoys sleight of hand and puns.”

“Maybe.” His smile is tight and probably not overwhelmingly convincing, but Grantaire is already turning away, so he doesn’t imagine that it really matters. From the other side of the room Courfeyrac calls his name, and Enjolras puts down the papers, taking a deep breath and resolving to forget the entire exchange.

Perhaps predictably, this does not remotely happen. 

Before he’d even sat down in the café where they’d arranged to meet post-meeting, Enjolras had already felt agitated; seeing Phillip’s affable, honest smile somehow only exacerbates it.

Assuming the seat opposite him, Phillip puts down his mug. “How was your meeting?” His expression is open and earnest as he leans over the table like he’s genuinely interested, and something in Enjolras breaks.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Phillip blinks at him. “Oh, um. I see.” He pulls back, sitting upright. “Can I ask if something happened? Did I do something?”

Enjolras clenches his teeth to contain his sigh. Adult actions have adult consequences. “No, not at all. I—this just isn’t working for me. You’ve been wonderful.”

“I see.” Phillip nods, smiling much more kindly than Enjolras probably deserves. “Well, I can’t say I’m not sorry to hear it, but I appreciate your being upfront with me.”

“I really do apologise.”

“Hey, it happens: no harm, no foul.” 

He grimaces all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Well, there’s not much to be done about it now, is there?” Phillip chuckles, eyes casting around the room before alighting on something behind Enjolras. A hand politely waves in the air. “Ah, yes, sorry, can I get this in a to-go cup?”

It only makes Enjolras feel worse, and he rubs a tired hand over his face, laughing helplessly. “I really should have handled this with more tact.”

“You’re fine,” Phillip insists with a grin, “really. I prefer this to beating around the bush for a whole hour.”

“Hashtag ‘Waste His Time',” Enjolras quotes dryly.

“Exactly!” For someone who’s just been broken up with, Phillip is handling himself extremely gracefully, and Enjolras really likes to think that, in another place and time, they might have worked out.

“We could stay in touch, if you want,” he quickly offers. “If you’re interested.”

Phillip seems to consider this. “I think I would. But,” he says, standing to accept an empty cup from an employee, “for now, I think the appropriate thing to do is to bemoan the breaking of my heart to my cat.”

“Of course.” It really would have been great if they could have worked out. “Thanks again.”

A bashful grin breaks across Phillip’s face as he shrugs. “No harm, no foul. See you ‘round?”

“See you,” he promises.

Phillip waves as he leaves, and relief surges over Enjolras. The break-up hadn’t been anticipated until it was already underway, but now that it’s done and over with it feels all the more obvious that it was a relationship he’d never had any business being in in the first place. 

A respectful five minutes passes before he pulls out his phone.

> **You:** Where r u

When Enjolras shows up at Grantaire’s flat, there’s no song and dance or pleasantries.

Instead, he’s yanked in by his tie, and _yes,_ this is the push-back and fire and _substance_ he’s been craving. 

No sooner is the door shut than Enjolras is being shoved up against it, a searing kiss pinning him in place. Previous encounters had always carried with them a thrumming immediacy charged with static electricity; this is different, though, a low intensity burning under everything with weighted urgency and leaving scorch marks in its wake. Grantaire is everywhere at once, tearing off the tie and haphazardly untucking Enjolras’ shirts. The rough calluses of his hands feel excruciating against his skin, and Enjolras lets one hand tangle messily into dark hair while the other grasps desperately at any hold he can get on the man’s back. There’s a thigh between his, rocking with a heady insistence that makes Enjolras see white behind closed eyelids, and he groans low into Grantaire’s mouth. It’s like their first time doing this, except this time Enjolras is the one against the door and the lights are on and it’s _one thousand times better._

It doesn’t take long for nimble fingers to locate the waistband of Enjolras’ pants. “Is—”

“Yes. _Please.”_

The pressure disappears, which isn’t what Enjolras had wanted at _all,_ but Grantaire’s clever hand is working at Enjolras’ belt, he decides that this is an acceptable excuse. The muscles in his lower stomach jump when Enjolras feels the flat of the man’s palm press against him, and by the time wetted fingers are snaking into his pants he already knows this won’t last long.

The full heat of Grantaire directly against him is electrifying. Enjolras has been on-edge since he’d left the café earlier, anticipation thrumming under his skin that only magnified the closer he drew to the flat. Now that Grantaire’s clever touch is on him, his knees are buckling, and _Jesus,_ this won’t last long _at all._

Enjolras cums with an abrupt, choked sound, body tensing up before slackening. Grantaire’s form in front of him and the door behind are his salvation until his legs are prepared to cooperate again. A flash of white panic shoots through Enjolras that it really might be a repeat of their first time, but when he looks down Grantaire is still staring at Enjolras like he’s starving, and the fear disappears.

Even so, Grantaire only watches for now, a caged animal behind invisible bars. Enjolras removes the guesswork, surging forward once more, and just like that they’re back on track.

Enjolras’ jealousy had been all-encompassing, indiscriminately absorbent, but Grantaire’s is a thing with teeth. It’s violent, pushing and pulling and biting and scratching. They make it into Grantaire’s room somehow (however it may be, Enjolras’ shirt is definitely less some buttons for it), and it’s just the right amount of everything. He doesn’t have time to think about the tearing stitches he hears as he scrambles to pull Grantaire’s shirt over his head, and he's pretty sure his chinos and pants are pooled together in the same stack as his socks and oxfords, having all been removed in the same snapped motion.

For now Enjolras’ world has come down to Grantaire hovering over his hips and looking up at him through dark lashes as blunt fingertips run lines from hip to knee. The man’s breath scorches hot across the skin there, his presence implied but not nearly enough as stubble scrapes over the tops of Enjolras’ thighs before migrating south.

When Grantaire finally finishes his teasing, it’s nothing but flesh against flesh, the stinging heat of Grantaire’s still-wandering hands mingling with the wetness of his mouth directly against Enjolras, and it’s so much more than he had expected. He’d thought about it, imagined the swirl of Grantaire’s tongue around his fingers and the hot suction of his mouth being applied to other uses; to have it here and now, with Grantaire so present and their eye-contact stripping him barer than any nudity alone…it’s nothing his inadequate imagination could have prepared him for.

The sensations all combine into that vast, vacuous void that expands overhead wider and wider until finally snapping back in, and it’s too much, Enjolras needs to pull Grantaire off of him because _Jesus Christ, it’s too much._

Enjolras had anticipated that Grantaire would pull back at this point, but he instead feels kisses being bitten over his chest, his collarbones, his neck, as Grantaire climbs up over his body. The impression of being surrounded is an intoxicating one, and when Enjolras is at last capable of holding himself up he takes advantage of the positioning to throw a leg over Grantaire’s hip, flipping the man onto his back and restoring a sense of their usual power dynamics.

He already knows what he wants to do, but so far tonight nothing they’ve done has required protection. Loath as he is to interrupt their rhythm, Grantaire’s recent track record doesn’t grant any room for leeway. “Where do you keep—”

“Nightstand.”

Grantaire’s nightstand, the man seems to have forgotten, has three drawers, and naturally the supplies are in the third drawer Enjolras checks. Blessedly, his earlier manoeuvre had flipped them to the side of the bed nearest to the stand, and Grantaire— _brilliant_ Grantaire with his _brilliant_ mind—has decided to take the time and put it to better use lavishing attention over Enjolras’ chest. Nipple play is usually a miss for him, but following two orgasms his whole body lights up under the attention. The inevitable discovery of the correct drawer becomes a sweeping victory by the time it finally comes to pass.

Enjolras doesn’t know what he’d expected Grantaire to do when he sat up, but for some reason mirroring him hadn’t seemed like an option. The boxer is shorter than him on a normal day, and with Enjolras in his lap the angle to reach the man’s mouth has only become more impossible. If Grantaire notices, he doesn’t seem to care: arms wrapping firmly around Enjolras’ waist, he continues nipping and lapping in equal measure. Enjolras clutches at the boxer’s shoulders (broad shoulders, cords of muscle moving imperceptibly beneath inked skin), arching into the touch, and after a time he starts to feel Grantaire’s hips jerk under him. Right, Enjolras had been doing something.

The condom’s packaging is torn open with just enough care to assure that its contents won’t be damaged before being summarily abandoned, and Enjolras shimmies his hips back enough to work the condom between them and over Grantaire. It’s the first Enjolras has actually been allowed to touch him tonight; if the responding guttural groan is anything to go by, this has not been lost on Grantaire, a thin strain of profanity hissing into Enjolras' sternum as his hands work the latex down. It’s careful work, if only because Enjolras doesn’t think that either of them will be able to take the consequences of having to retrieve a second one.

When the ring is firmly secured to the base of his partner, Enjolras lets his hand linger a beat before opening the packet of lube and smearing it over the shaft. With that done, he shifts forward in Grantaire’s lap, a thumb reaching out to pull his own dick up against the lubricated length. Normally this position would make Enjolras nervous, but his boundaries have been set since their first rendezvous, and Grantaire’s respect for them has never faltered.

Except for a ceaseless staccato of sharp, shuddery breaths, Grantaire has been frozen since Enjolras’ hand stopped moving. The sweat from his forehead is damp against Enjolras’ chest, fingertips solid in the flesh of his back, and Enjolras is ready to watch Grantaire break apart under his touch.

He starts slow, keeping his thumb wrapped around himself while his fingers slide up and down the other length. The sound emitted is a choked one, and Grantaire’s grip on Enjolras grows tighter. Emboldened, Enjolras’ movements grow faster. 

It’s a weird angle, but it’s good, and when Grantaire’s hips do begin to jerk (never violently enough for Enjolras to be anything less than completely in-control), jolts of pleasure spike through his body. He leans over Grantaire as he strokes, murmuring probably nonsense into that soft, soft hair and smelling the leave-in conditioner he once heard Jay telling Courfeyrac about and living in the moment where their bodies are wrapped so tightly around one another that the lines between where one ends and the other begins are starting to blur.

Grantaire’s hand cautiously joins in between them, tentatively until Enjolras intertwines their fingers, and suddenly the pace is racing, Enjolras’ _mind_ is racing, and both devolve to grunts and pants and fractured pieces of one another’s names.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire manages, and Enjolras feels his name all the way to his toes, because this is attached to _him, he’s_ doing this, and Grantaire _knows. “Enjolras,”_ he repeats, pitch rising.

Enjolras tries to mangle together a response, but the words are lost in a stream of whispered swears, building into a full-on keen as he cums, his member throbbing painfully under his thumb as the waves break over him.

Grantaire’s warning isn’t much more elegant, a “fuck, fuck, _fuck—”_ followed by his hand coming to a stuttering halt. His breathing is heavy and uneven as he gasps against Enjolras’ skin. _“Fuck,”_ he repeats, at once full of exasperation, exhaustion, and a hint of disbelief. 

Enjolras feels dizzy and sweaty and _good._ Boneless and sated, he lets himself fall sideways into the mattress. Grantaire follows, still breathless, and rolls onto his back, scrubbing his hands over his face. From his position mirroring the man, Enjolras carefully watches Grantaire’s expression.

He looks almost distracted as he tugs the soiled condom off of himself, wincing at the sensitivity, and once it’s deposited in what Enjolras hopes is a hidden bedside bin he looks at Enjolras. More specifically, he looks at Enjolras’ body, raking over the length with an unreadable expression. When Enjolras follows the gaze, the focal point becomes immediately evident: red lines run all over his body, parallel in some spots and angry messes of perpendicular in others. Bruising blotches appear everywhere Enjolras can hazily recall Grantaire’s mouth having explored (as well as some places that must have escaped his attention), and further splotching already surrounds areas where Grantaire had been particularly indelicate, promising blues and purples and delicious aches in the days to come. 

By the time Enjolras drags his eyes back to Grantaire’s face, the man is staring, and Enjolras still has no idea what this _means._

“I didn’t want to date him.” It’s automatic and unmeditated in much the same way the break-up had been, which Enjolras distantly recognizes probably isn’t good, but the words are already out. 

It’s met with a snort, Grantaire’s fingers weaving together behind his head as he settles back to stare at his ceiling. “Well, yeah, I kind of figured, since you broke up.”

He wants to be annoyed with Grantaire for mincing his words or being intentionally dense, but a voice in the back of his mind (that sounds suspiciously like Courfeyrac) reminds him that, to the outside observer, he probably hasn’t been as obvious as he assumes. “I didn’t want to date him before then either.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, he watches Grantaire’s expression closely, brows furrowing as the man blinks several times overhead. “Was…are you not happy with the sex?” 

“No Grantaire, the sex is—no. I dated him because—” The rabbithole of that enigma and its true intentions hasn’t been fully-explored yet, but suffice to say that he suspects ‘I wanted you to feel jealous’ is not a strong lead. “—you were seeing other people.”

This time Grantaire outright squints at him. “Is this one of your weird equality things? Because I really don’t think half-past nine post-fuck on a Thursday is the time to be ringing Ferre up for a revisit of equality versus equity, but I’m sure he’d be up for it if you really need, and it sounds like—”

“It’s not about equality,” he interrupts, trying not to sigh. “It’s about that I’d like to be more than your rebound sex every time your relationship ends.” The technical term is ‘revenge fuck’, but it feels rather crass and bitter for what it is that they do. Maybe that makes it all the more appropriate, though. 

“Like…” More blinking. “Exclusive fuck-buddies?”

This conversation is going nowhere. “‘Like’ I’d like to be the one taking you out instead of the one you run to after.”

The other man’s expression sours. “I can go to someone else, if you’re not comfortable—”

“No!” This time it’s a snap, because honestly, he is being as clear as he thinks he can. “I am romantically interested in and would like to date you. You don’t need to say ‘yes’, but at least do me the courtesy of saying ‘no’ if you’re not interested. There’s no need to mock me.” 

The blinks come to a slow stop as Grantaire’s expression falls entirely slack but for his still-widening eyes, which…is not promising. If they were at Enjolras’ flat Grantaire might do them both the convenience of leaving, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to go when he’s so close to getting answers. “Like…on purpose?” 

That’s it, he’s leaving. Enjolras stands, searching for where his clothing had been abandoned. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you next Thursday, then?” 

“Wait, no, I’m sorry, just…gimme a sec?” Glancing over at Grantaire’s face, Enjolras can see that he now looks somewhat flustered and more than a little red. “This is all running rather contradictory to my worldview, so I’m kind of trying to…process.”

“‘Process’,” Enjolras repeats, narrowing his eyes warily but seating himself at the foot of the bed even so.

“Look, I hadn’t given any of this much thought until, like, today—” Promising start. “—and there’s a lot of crossed wires right now. Which I’m sure is exactly what you wanted to hear, but it’s kind of like, I always knew you were hot and smart and kind and perfect and that I wanted you, but I figured it was a purely sexual thing? And I haven’t really been letting myself overthink that, and then I heard about Feli—no, that’s not. Your guy, whatever, whoever—and I felt really weird about it, and then you showed up on my doorstep, and…I dunno.”

Enjolras is already nodding: he’s familiar with the feeling.

“So this is kind of a lot, but also I actually wanna make this work? Like, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I haven’t exactly been ‘trying’ in my past couple of relationships—” He’d had his suspicions. “—and you’re kind of amazing, so I’d rather not bollocks this up from the gate.”

One of Enjolras’ eyebrows gives an unimpressed cock as he dryly remarks, “Well, we seem to be off to a winning start.” 

It startles a laugh out of Grantaire, and Enjolras tries (without much success) to tamp down a smile. “A steroid-enhanced start.”

“So does that…” Enjolras’ lips purse, eyes falling to the crumpled duvet between them. “Does that mean we’re disqualified?”

Talented of a speechmaker as he is, Enjolras doesn’t fancy himself particularly good at wordplay or extended metaphors, especially not beside the likes of Grantaire, but the way the other man chews at the inside of his mouth makes him think that this one might be adequate. “I don’t think so. I mean, not if you don’t want us to be.”

This isn’t remotely how the tribunal process for performance-enhancing drugs should be run, but if it’s making way for this conversation to happen Enjolras can ignore that (for now). “I’m willing to compete if you are.”

“Okay, metaphor over, I’m thinking of us like we’re racehorses. Yeah, yes: I’d like to date.”

This time Enjolras doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin, instead crawling over to pull Grantaire into a deep, lingering kiss that leaves his head swimming. “Then I suppose we’re dating.”

Grantaire doesn’t have an alarm clock on his bedside table, but he does have a wristwatch that Enjolras takes advantage of now. Quarter past ten: the man’s earlier estimate had been extremely generous. 

“I believe I should be going, then.”

The boxer’s face quickly transforms from bliss to the picture of confusion. “What? Why?”

Enjolras shrugs, at last returning to the long-procrastinated task of parting pants from slacks. “We have work tomorrow.”

“Sleep here.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows raise. “Are you sure?”

Grantaire shrugs. “No. But work’s for squares anyway. 

“Stay.”


	2. will you hold my hand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it says in the tags but cw for mention of pre-fic drug use (weed and coke)

Elle is a very subtle and nuanced person. She is full of contradictions, hates explaining herself, and despises being transparently understood—it’s one of the things that had charmed Grantaire in the first place. When she crosses her arms as he starts collecting his things to go to the weekly meeting, though, it’s difficult to misread her. 

“You know, you can come if you want.”

Elle rolls her eyes. “I’m not interested in watching you flirt with the leader of your sack lunch bunch for another three hours, thanks.”

He sighs. “We’ve been doing this since like. Undergrad.” 

“Oh, so you’ve wanted his dick since ‘like, undergrad’.”

Well when she says it like that it sounds like a bad thing. “Are you that uncomfortable with that he’s an attractive person? Lots of people are attractive. Most of the people in that group are attractive.”

“You don’t flirt with most of the people in that group.”

“I absolutely do.”

“Well they don’t flirt back,” she backtracks, “and they can make it five fucking minutes without looking at you.”

Grantaire’s head shakes. “I literally cannot with you right now.” His thermos is still in Elle’s drying rack, and when he stalks into the kitchen to get it she follows him.

“Are you seriously going to act like you guys aren’t thirty seconds away from shagging in a closet at any given moment?”

“I resent the implication that I would shag with anyone in a Musain storage closet. Do you know how often those get cleaned? Loo or bust.”

It’s meant to tease a grin out of her, but Elle apparently has much stronger feelings on this subject than he’d realised. “This isn’t funny, and you’re not walking away from this.”

“Well that _is_ funny, because it kinda looks like I am.”

“It’s shitty, and it’s fucking disgusting,” she says, following him back into the living room. “You and your Class Prefect making moon-eyes at each other from across the room while both of you wait on the other to make a goddamned move? There’s other people in the room, you know.” He makes a move to walk away again, but Elle grabs his wrist, yanking it so he’s looking at her. _“And_ you have a girlfriend.”

“I’m not _waiting_ for anything,” snaps Grantaire, pulling his wrist back, “and I’m not exactly secretive about you, everyone fucking knows. Enjolras is hot, we flirt, and I move on with my goddamned life. Kinda weird that you aren’t, honestly.”

“What, ‘moving on’ from my boyfriend being obsessed with another man? Yes, thanks, let me just _get over_ that. Get real, R.”

“You’re making a fuss over fucking nothing,” he tells her, hand on the doorknob to leave.

“Then don’t go.”

Grantaire has missed meetings before. In fact, since he and Elle started seeing one another three months ago, he’s missed plenty of meetings: there was the week they went kayaking, the week they were hanging with her friends, the week they were marathoning shitty eighties movies, the week they were so stoned they didn’t even realize it was a Thursday…Grantaire doesn’t have an issue with missing meetings. He does, however, have an issue with Elle trying to make him choose between her and his friends.

He doesn’t bother turning around. “I’ll see you around, Elle.”

“Don’t fucking count on it.”

With the door closed and the deadbolt slamming shut behind him, Grantaire huffs. Well, that could have gone better.

It occurs to him to go home, but dammit, if he’s gonna get broken up with over a fucking meeting, then he’s going to the fucking meeting. All of his friends are there anyway, which’ll be nice. Alcohol also is, but his therapist says that stress-drinking ‘isn’t conducive to maintaining a lifestyle that assures his loved ones that he is well’ (Dr Sam might be onto him about his motivations for living a less shitty life), so when he does finally go to the bar two and a half hours in he orders his virgin mai tai and calls it a night.

Or at least, he thinks he’s calling it a night, until someone sidles up beside him. “Hey.”

“Hm?” He looks up from his drink. “Oh. Hey.”

To say Enjolras looks great would be redundant, because he always looks great. Instead, Grantaire notices what’s abnormal—that is to say, the way the blond’s eyebrows draw together as he asks, “Everything all right?”

 _Fucking peachy,_ he doesn’t say. Maybe if he plays his cards right, Apollo will leave him to his drink. “Sure,” he answers, rolling his eyes. He tries to take a drink but succeeds only in stabbing his cheek with the straw. Waving a hand to distract from the fumble, he adds a very convincing, “All right, all the time.”

Enjolras looks significantly less than convinced, but then, that’s kind of their dynamic. Blessedly, he drops it. “I noticed Leila’s not here. Is she okay?”

Leila? Does Grantaire even know any Leila’s? On reflection, it’s more likely that Enjolras is asking for a Leia, Leah, Lilo…“Elle?”

“Your girlfriend.” Enjolras doesn’t even look embarrassed.

“Elle,” he confirms. “She’s fine, she’s good.” _Probably wants me to die in a fire, which, you know. Good for her. Take a number._

“That’s good.”

“Well, I mean, she’s _fine._ We’re fine.” They’re really not, come to think of it. “We fought before I left.”

“Oh.” Enjolras blinks. “Is something the matter?”

Grantaire shakes his head. He shouldn’t have said anything. “She—it was stupid. It doesn’t matter. But…I think we broke up?” _Shut up, shut up, shut all the way **up.**_

“Oh?” The blond’s expression remains neutral, and Grantaire is aware that he’s probably making a fool of himself, but _fuck it,_ he’s the one who got broken up with for something that isn’t even a _thing._

“That is, I’m pretty sure I got dumped.” A vague pass at bashfulness is made as he runs a hand through his hair with an awkward chuckle.

“Oh,” repeats Enjolras flatly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. It was honestly one of the dumbest fights I’ve ever been in.”

At least Enjolras reacts to that. “I once watched you take a woman to the ground over a breath mint.”

That was different, his honor and that of his family was at stake. (also, he’s pretty sure he’d just done a line off of someone’s student handbook) This was all sober. “It was an extremely stupid fight.”

“I see.”

The conversation is clearly over, and any other night this is when Enjolras would make his excuses and beg off, so Grantaire is extremely surprised when instead of doing that the blond commandeers the seat beside him and waves down the bartender to order two sodas. When the revolutionary looks over at him, there’s something in his expression—a glint like he’s made a decision, like determination. Whatever it means, it definitely makes Grantaire hot.

It’s exactly the sort of thing Elle had complained about earlier, he recalls guiltily, but then he also recalls that Elle had dumped him for not playing party to her entirely baseless concern. _Enj and me, date? As fucking if._ He hasn’t flirted with Enjolras with intent since the early days of their correspondence, and even then it hadn’t been with any expectations.

Elle wants to be pissy about him flirting with Enjolras? Fine, he’ll flirt with Enjolras. He’ll flirt Enjolras out of the fucking café, and then when he’s gone Grantaire’ll keep flirting until some other hot single in his area takes his sorry ass home. 

‘Waiting for Enjolras to make a move’ his _arse._

The thing about flirting with Enjolras is that it’s fun. Like, a fucking _lot_ of fun. Fun enough that it’s hard to remember that the leader isn’t actually flirting back with him, that Grantaire is definitely imagining the glint in his eye and the calculating angle to the corner of his mouth. Enjolras is just the kind of person who gets genuinely excited about justice and prison reform and, ugh, his _job,_ so when Grantaire asks nothing-questions about them and Enjolras is receptive it doesn’t mean anything. Worse, he genuinely cares about people, so when he does stupid shit like asking after Grantaire’s grandmother and sister and the hermit crab he adopted six months ago there isn’t any higher purpose than that he actually wants to know. Which is vomit-inducing and precious and definitely has more than a little to do with why Grantaire still attends these damned meetings in the first place.

Tonight it’s become a game, though, so Grantaire intends to do what he does best and ride this as far as it’ll take him, and then some. Three months isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things, but he had been attached, and to see those three months swirl down the toilet for something so petty and ridiculous? Yeah, he’ll flirt himself into a wall.

Except that he’s not, because Enjolras is being weirdly receptive. He’s laughing at all the right times (Grantaire might try telling a bad joke to test the veracity of Enjolras’ humor, but ‘bad jokes’ seem to be his favorite variety, which is so painstakingly endearing), he’s bought Grantaire two more sodas, and he’s been leaning suspiciously closer than necessary all night. It isn’t until the man is reaching out and tucking Grantaire’s hair out of his face that he admits that it might not all be in his head.

If he had had even a single drink tonight, anything that could possibly have impaired his judgment in the slightest, Grantaire wouldn’t even consider it. Being as it is, he is as sound of mind and body as he’s ever been, so he decides to take his chances. Enjolras is sober too, so on the off-chance that he can’t pick up on Grantaire’s cues, at least he knows he’ll be getting the shit slapped out of him by an Enjolras with his wits about him.

Instead of what he’d assumed would happen, _id est_ Enjolras finally leaning back from the calling of his bluff or missing the cue altogether, the blond leans in bafflingly closer. Grantaire barely has time to register the way the other man’s breath catches, stuttering against the suddenly very sensitive skin of Grantaire’s lips before the distance is closed, pure electricity washing over his body as it is. 

Once they’ve begun it’s hard to stop, the touch of Enjolras’ mouth against his addicting now that he knows it, and when the other man’s hand makes its gentle advance to his knee and then gradually up over his thigh, neither inside nor out, his lungs give a truly embarrassing shudder.

They separate, and it takes a moment for Grantaire to orient himself to where this is, what this is, _who_ this is.

“My place?” offers Enjolras in a dizzying turn of events.

Grantaire nods absently, gaze sweeping quickly around the café to catalogue who he may or may not catch hell from later. On initial inspection he doesn’t see anyone, and after a cursory glance at his watch he realizes that this is probably because nearly two hours have passed since their meeting ended. Even though it’d be uncharacteristic (not to mention highly hypocritical) for any of them to give Grantaire or Enjolras shit for something like this, it’s still nice to know that it’s one fewer thing to worry about tonight.

Because there is now a nonzero chance that he and Enjolras might fuck.

Holy shit.

It’s definitely good that Grantaire had decided to listen to his therapist for once ever, because even totally sober the anticipation is scrambling his thoughts like nothing else. An entire subway ride and a bus transfer were involved in the journey, he’s pretty sure; that memory is one that, if formed at all, was either misfiled or immediately binned. More’s the pity.

He’d always assumed that Enjolras lived with Combeferre or Courfeyrac or one of the other people in the club who seems suitably serious and appropriate at all times, but apparently he lives alone. The flat isn’t too big, but he doesn’t have much time to form an opinion beyond that before the door is being thrown shut behind him and he is crushed up against it, his body pressed against Enjolras’ at every crucial crux and plane. Their mouths have crashed back together, only this time there’s teeth and urgency and _heat_ that had been stuck behind a down comforter veil at the Musain, and _fuck_ is it good. Enjolras has worked a spindly thigh between Grantaire’s, which is doing all sorts of things to his ability to think, and Grantaire’s poor, defenseless hands are left to scramble across the blond’s body totally void of intent or agenda.

Mindless though they are, they seem to have enough agency to untuck Enjolras’ ridiculous (hot) button-down, pushing the fabric up along with the dastardly, plan-foiling tank top beneath and savoring the tender flesh they find there. Somehow _(incredibly, remarkably, astoundingly),_ this is enough to leave Enjolras panting into Grantaire’s mouth, which is quite convenient because it allows Grantaire to break away long enough to begin a trail from the blond’s jaw down his neck and across the still-veiled collarbone. Unbuttoning the shirt will take so much longer than he is willing to divert his hands from their current meanderings for, so instead he directs them south, tucking one into a back pocket while the other presses flat against the tender skin skirting the edge of Enjolras’ trousers. Enjolras’ breath hitches under his mouth as the fingers drive lower, pressure against Grantaire’s own lower region finally giving way as the other man’s hips tilt back to allow access.

He has to withdraw his hand briefly to wet it because he’s an overeager dumbass with a long-stretching history of getting ahead of himself. It’s a pretty unsexy exercise tonight, but judging by the way Enjolras gapes at the action he suspects the man might beg to disagree.

Fuck, Enjolras begging. Now _there’s_ a thought.

He works his way back into Enjolras’ pants, and then the _noises_ start, and _fuck, **fuck,**_ that’s a lot, that is _so_ much, and he’s going to cum in his pants like a fucking _teenager_ tonight, he just knows it. He makes a move to work his fingers farther back but feels Enjolras freeze against him. 

“No?”

“Not a particular fan,” Enjolras admits through clenched teeth.

“I can work with that.” 

He does, and judging by the absolutely _filthy_ slew of profanity muttered against Grantaire's ear the entire time (and look, he assumed Enjolras had a grasp on the basic mechanics of cussing, but hearing him utter the words in this voice, in this _way,_ in an order that would make even Bahorel blush? _Fuck),_ it’s working just fine for Apollo.

There’s a brief, rising warning before Enjolras is pulsing in his hand, body spasming and finally out of words. Grantaire waits until the aftereffects have passed before moving his hand, careful not to jostle the oversensitive member more than necessary. He’s still pressed against the door and wondering if he should be taking his leave when Enjolras surges forth again, mouth moving slowly and intentionally against Grantaire’s as his thigh returns to its place between Grantaire’s legs.

Things the reader should know: 
  1. Enjolras is hot
  2. Enjolras is _really_ hot
  3. It’s been a couple of days, okay? Two, at least
  4. He _really_ doesn’t know who taught Enjolras to dirty-talk, but he hopes they wake up to chocolate and flowers every day for the rest of their life
  5. _Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck_



Grantaire is a class act, so he does warn Enjolras, but the sounds get jumbled inside of frantic moans, and _yep, jizz in my pants, all right._ All told, he’s suffered worse for much shittier sex.

Once recovery time’s over Enjolras awkwardly offers his couch, but pretty much the worst way Grantaire can imagine starting a day is having to shuffle around awkward morning-after pleasantries, with Enjolras, with dried cum in his pants, at whatever hellish hour he’d have to wake at to get home, shower, and change to arrive at work on-time. For the sakes of everyone involved, he’ll take a hard pass.

“This was fun,” he tells Enjolras as he zips up his jeans.

“Yeah?” Blissed-out Enjolras is great. ‘Yeah’, like that’s a word he uses in real-life. 

“Yeah,” Grantaire confirms. “Catch you later?”

“Definitely.” 

… 

He wakes Friday morning feeling _good._ Sure, his whore’s bath the previous night had left something to be desired, and he has to be at the second-most miserable job in the world in forty-five minutes, but he’s also relaxed down through his very marrow and sinew, the whispers of Enjolras’ touch still fresh all over him. He feels well-rested despite getting no more than five hours of sleep last night, and even the memory of his and Elle’s break-up can’t touch him.

So this is the power of fucking a god.

He rolls over to grab at his phone, clocking the sound of his roommate finishing their shower as he does so. He has twelve missed texts from Elle and two voicemails. The voicemails are deleted unheard, especially after reading the texts. He considers telling her about his liaison, but after his godly encounter he is feeling uncharacteristically mature.

> **You:** soz was busy  
>  **You:** I don’t think that’s a good idea  
>  **You:** let’s stay friends 

**Author's Note:**

> tip your author? i'd love to hear what you think!!!!


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